A nurse had seen John get more and more upset and had terminated the call, allowing them both to say goodbye before insisting John rest and closing the laptop. A sigh tore out of Sherlock and his head seemed too heavy to hold. He crossed his arms over the desk and let his head fall forward. "Get better John. Please get better. Just, don't be broken."

Mycroft peeked through the ajar door, watching strings of speech leak out of his brother. He got it now. He realized that finally there was someone else out there to take care of his brother. Another protector. And this one had accomplished something that had eluded him all his years. He taught Sherlock to protect himself. And he'd done it by softening him down, not by hardening him up. And now Sherlock must learn something completely new. He must be the protector and look after those he cares about. Mycroft hoped, for his and John's sake that he was up to the task.

John stepped through that door, the one he'd stepped through so many times. The operating theatre. Clad in green scrubs that seemed to shimmer. Clean. He felt the breath in his lungs. Clean. His heartbeat echoed in his ears, regular, calm. Until he saw it. The mess on table. First it was a man with a punctured lung. Then a boy with burns. Then a girl whose every limb hung by a tendon. Blood on his shoes. His heart beat increasing, speed, volume. Blood on his shirt. A gun shot! Blood on his hands. His hand twitched and bullet holes appeared in the walls. Somewhere a cry and a knife was in his hands. He was in his fatigues. No, he was in bloodied scrubs. No! he was in full combat gear. Blood in his mouth. He couldn't breathe. Somewhere the cry grew fainter.

With a strangled scream, John was awake and sitting up. His hands clenched so tight, he'd drawn blood from his palms. The sheets were cold from where he'd wet the bed, sometime during the night. Everything in his mind screamed for him to get up, to clear up the mess. But he couldn't move. Why should he? He was of no use. May as well just lay here, wet, broken and bleeding…

It had been 5 days since John had been admitted to hospital. He'd recovered from the dehydration and malnutrition. He was sleeping at least a few hours every day and night. In John's books he was recovered, triggering conversations with Sherlock aside. But the nurses and doctors disagreed. John couldn't relax. He was constantly twitching, jittering, moving. He'd gotten leave to do some minor exercises and did them constantly. Walking round the hospital. Sit ups. Push ups. Stretches. Anything to not be still. One of the nurses reckoned John was getting stressed out being in the same place for so long and not feeling useless. Hearing on the grapevine of his contributions to a Red Cross home, she organised for him to visit. John jumped at the chance, but was dismayed to hear he was definitely not visiting in an official capacity and was forbidden from performing any medical duties or care. Nevertheless, he boarded the Jeep and let himself be transported to the home. He was met warmly, if a little warily at the gates. It was clear the staff had been briefed on the terms of his visit and as such knew of his … problem. John bristled at these unfamiliar people getting a window into his weakness and insufficiencies. His hand clenched involuntarily and he fought to stay calm. Unbidden, Sherlock's voice began to play in his head "Being a doctor is more than something you do John. It's who you are. Who you have been from the day you were born. You don't always have to be acting on that to validate it" He wanted to believe him. He really did. But he just couldn't. He put it out his mind, burying it in the dark where he knew it would not stay, and proceeded forward into the home.

They were having lunch, or at least just finishing up. The children sat on blankets laid out on the floor. They ate rice with their fingers from communal bowls. The air was filled with heat and food smells as well as the sounds of laughter and chatter. John was shown to a seat and his hands were washed for him. One of the boys beside him looked up from his plate and smiled at him. John found himself instinctively smiling back. It occurred to him that this was the most genuine smile he'd experienced in a very long time. His smile wobbled a bit. The boy tilted his head to the side, confused. John took a breath, wiped an errant tear away and smiled bigger. The boy reciprocated, showing his missing teeth. He pushed his tongue forward, poking it through the gap and crossing his eyes. John laughed. Something broken inside him rattled. Clacked against another piece of him. He felt it now. He understood. This child had something he didn't have, something he used to have but had lost somewhere in this crap-fest. Life. Simple joy. He wasn't just existing, fulfilling a function. He was living. He laughed again. He probably looked crazy. Didn't matter he was crazy. Crazy for letting this go on so long. He felt warmth on his arm, a small tug on his sleeve. He looked down to see the boy staring up at him, grinning that cheeky grin. He spoke but John couldn't understand, or even recognise his mother tongue. He looked around and pulled over one of the health workers. She listened to him and smiled
"He's asking if he can show you the soccer ball he received yesterday"
"Oh, um sure"
The health worker, whose name tag read "Fatima" translated and the boy hopped up eagerly, grabbing John's hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Fatima tagged along, helping John keep up with the boy's constant chatter.
"He says his name is Ahmed. He wants to know yours"
"My name is John"
Ahmed screwed up his face in bemused amusement
"He says that's a funny name. You can imagine not a lot of people are called John around here"
John smiled "No, I guess not. Tell him not a lot of boys are called Ahmed where I come from"
"He says, is there football where you come from?"
"Oh yeah. We practically invented it!"
That was all Ahmed needed to know. The ball was a bit dingy and beat up. Clearly second hand but also very clearly cherished. Once the other children saw him chucking a ball around it wasn't long before a small crowd gathered, buzzing around him and laughing as he tried to balance a ball on his head. To them he wasn't John, the one who'd had a mental breakdown down or John the one who'd shot someone. He was John, the one who'd given them food and warm clothes, who played with them when he came to visit and did silly things with footballs. That was a nice change of pace.